There is an irrational fear within his veins, a certain distrust, as if he is only waiting for the trap to close, for the monster to eat him. Whenever the word medic is mentioned in a conversation, an iron fist demands obedience by throttling the last shreds of dignity out of him and leaves his skin bathed in cold sweat. He doesn't know why he reacts this way, why he can't even lay eyes on one of the blue-green uniformed officers of the Medical Corps without looking for an easy escape route. He only knows that the nightmares, these memories he is sure to never have lived through, were his companions since early childhood. That the dreams of pain and torture, of losing more and more of his humanity due to well meaning surgeon hands, will never end, will only become more pronounced as his body grows older and more dependent on outside help to survive.
And now here he lies, strapped to a medical bed, with uncountable instruments connected to his body, the rhythmic whirring and beeping and shish-hush-shish of an artificial respirator driving him crazy with the wish to cover his ears, to shut out the noise, to make it stop hurting so much. His fingers itch to scratch away the needles entering his skin, to rip out all that doesn't belong inside of him, but someone, probably a nurse controlling the machines surrounding him, had the ridiculously idiotic idea to immobilize his hands, to keep him from feeling anything under his elbows.
There are voices in the room, hushed as if they don't want to disturb his rest, whispering in a tone that borders on fear or a healthy dose of respect when confronted with the consequences of them waking the patient. He listens to them, silently cursing whatever revenging deity deemed it necessary to put him in this hellish place, not caring enough to move his head and open his eyes to see who these two men discussing the fate of the galaxy are.
"Do they know what is wrong with him?" one asks, a slight accent in his vowels, like he was raised on one of the Core Worlds, like someone who went to boarding school on Coruscant. Nobody, he thinks, in the Rebellion talks like that, they all try to mask their high education if possible, as if to admit one's parents were rich enough to sent them to the Glass Towers for school is a crime.
"No." comes the answer, in the clipped tones of one who was raised in the military, of one who is used to being obeyed, to being in command, no breath wasted on unnecessary speeches. Old soldier blood, comes to mind, at least in the fifth generation. "They 'believe' it is his implants, some glitch in the programming." A sigh follows, the tired sound of one who spent hours, if not days, pacing in front of a sick bed. "But they don't know for sure, Piett. They just don't know."
The conversation continues, but the two men leave the room, leave him alone in this prison of sterility and imagined betrayal, like everyone will leave him in the end. There is not much to do when one is forced to lie still, not allowed to move enough to get the cramps out of muscles that scream for activity; so he lets his mind wander, lets it show him the faces of men he never met before. Sometimes, when that happens, he hears the name of some Imperial officer, sees some picture, and he knows, remembers who they were, what they did to become what they are now.
Once upon a time, before he got sucked into these games of Rebellion and Evil Establishment, it once disturbed him that he knows probably more about the Imperial High Court than those entering it every day, but not any more. He got used to it, to seeing faces, weapons, death and destruction in his dreams, memories of a life he never lived, at least when visions of a cold, calculating mind enter his head there aren't any nightmares about being slices into tiny bits by medical droids. For that he will have to thank whomever is playing with his sanity, if for nothing else.
One of those much despised contraptions connected to his left arm must have administered some kind of tranquillizer, the slightly colder fluid entering his bloodstream accompanied by the type of pressure one really doesn't want to contemplate, bringing him before the gates of dreamscape. He shrugs mentally and enjoys the ride to places unknown, worlds never seen, a milky film touching all his thoughts and painting them again in colours of black and crimson, comforting him with the calm interior of a warrior's heart.
The last thing he hears before sleep consumes him is the silent whispering of the dunes, their queen singing the lives of her heirs.